


Heavy Crown

by felonazcorp



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: F/M, mild D/s themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4045732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felonazcorp/pseuds/felonazcorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn't realize the War Boys have stopped calling him “Blood Bag” and started calling him “First Husband,” not until she overhears one of them ask Capable where First Husband is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Very loose fill for a kink meme prompt where Max becomes the Wives' harem instead of the other way around.
> 
> http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/450.html?thread=133570#cmt133570

She doesn't realize the War Boys have stopped calling him “Blood Bag” and started calling him “First Husband,” not until she overhears one of them ask Capable where First Husband is and she hums in consideration before offering, 

“Have you checked the Sowing Fields?” 

The Boy scuttles off and Capable returns to what she was doing, carefully mending a blanket with a small needle and jealously-hoarded thread. 

Furiosa blinks at her. “First...Husband?” she asks, lifting her eyebrows high. 

“Max,” Capable replies, not looking up. 

She takes a moment to consider this, but even then, she does not understand this new change in title. “...First _Husband?_ ” 

This time, Capable looks up at her, and the expression on her face makes it clear she thinks Furiosa is being deliberately obtuse or has spent too much time out in the sun and it has addled her brain. “Yes.” She sets down her blanket and folds her hands on top of it, taking a deep breath as if she is about to break some news to Furiosa that she won't like. 

Furiosa is almost certain this is correct. 

“He's handsome,” she says, and Furiosa blinks at her in surprise again. Is he? “And gentle.” _Gentle?_ “And fully-functioning.” This, she knows is true, is says so on his back. She has never seen the need to test it out for herself, though. “A strong full-life without any deformities? Do you know how rare that is?” 

Furiosa does know. “Have you...” she trails off, not sure if she wants to know the answer to her aborted question, struck suddenly by the mental image of Max flat on his back with her astride his hips, her hands braced on his belly, her hips rocking steadily. The heat that washes through her is alarming, and she surges out of her chair, needing to move, needing to do _something_ so that she will be distracted from her thoughts. 

Capable shrugs blithely, turning her attention back to the blanket. “No.” 

Furiosa pretends she is not relieved. 

“We've been waiting for _you._ ”

She's immediately alarmed again. “... _Me?_ ” 

Capable is far too good at insulting her intelligence without opening her mouth. The look she gives her is withering, and for a moment, Furiosa thinks she won't reply, but then she sighs heavily and sets the blanket down again. “Yes, _you._ He likes you best,” she says, her tone implying that this is incredibly obvious. Furiosa wonders if it is, if the entire Citadel knows that Max, apparently, likes her best. Is she the last to know? “We were waiting for you to take him before we did.” 

The jealousy that flares through her is unexpected in its intensity. 

Capable just smiles at her, having seen the flash of her eyes, and hums to herself smugly. “I think he's in the Sowing Fields,” she repeats, as if Furiosa leaving to go find him is a forgone conclusion. 

She goes. 

 

“First Husband,” she calls out, testing out the title, wanting too see how he reacts. 

Max lifts his head immediately, his eyes searching out hers, and the look in them when he realizes she's the one who called him has her belly clenching needily. 

She stares at him silently for a moment, coming to terms with this, and then she lifts her chin a little and gestures imperiously at him. “I need you.” 

He abandons his work immediately and comes to stand in front of her, his shoulders squared and his hands loose at his sides, his eyes meeting hers before dropping down in something that's close to deference. She wonders if he's putting on a show for the other people watching them curiously, or if he really feels like she can order him around and he has to take it without complaint. She wonders if it bothers him. She wonders if he _likes_ it, likes giving up responsibility to her. 

She turns on her heel and walks away, hearing the heavy thump-drag-thump of his step behind her, and pretends she doesn't feel triumphant at the knowledge that he will follow her wherever she goes. 

She doesn't really have much of a plan for where she's taking him, and she's somewhat surprised to find herself standing in what used to be the Vault, and has now become an open room where the Wives like to congregate, wandering in and out of the open doorway, the heavy locking door having been ripped away almost as soon as they retook the Citadel. 

The depression in the center of the room has been filled with huge, pale cushions, and it has become a favorite place to lounge, but today it is unoccupied. She looks at it and Max goes easily, without protesting, kicking off his boots before sinking down to the cushions so that he doesn't track mud over them and get them needlessly dirty. 

She stands staring at him silently for so long that he actually hunches his shoulders at her. 

“Furiosa,” he rumbles, his eyebrows sliding up his face. 

She lets out a steadying breath and takes a step closer. “What do they call me?” she asks, watching him intently. 

He's silent for a moment before he repeats himself in that same rumble, “Furiosa.” 

“Not First Wife?” 

He shakes his head, expression twisting slightly. “No. You are not a Wife. You are Furiosa.” 

It sounds like a title on his lips, not just her name, the rumble of his voice lending those simple syllables a weight that she's not used to hearing. 

She wants to taste them on his lips, lick them out of his mouth, feel the way they rumble in his throat. 

“Take off your clothes,” she says, surprising herself with how low her voice sounds. 

He obeys her without question, reaching behind his head to grasp at his collar and drag his shirt over his head, tossing it carelessly aside before reaching for his belt. She watches him undress, drinks in the sight of his skin, the length of his limbs and the scars he wears without seeming to notice them there, the old silvery ones and the fresh pink ones ignored the same way. 

She waits until he's naked before she comes any closer, standing on the edge of the cushion-filled depression, staring down at him. 

Slowly, without being prompted, his hands reach for her boots, and she lets him unbuckle them and steps out of them at his silent urging, noting that he is much more careful with her clothes than he was with his own. He undresses her with the same slow care, draping her clothing carefully near enough by so that she could reach for them if she wanted to but far enough away that they won't dirty them. 

It's easy to crawl on her knees up the length of his body, easier still to swing her leg over his shoulders, to look down the length of her body at him as he settles beneath her and lifts his head to press his lips to her thighs, easiest of all to thread her fingers into his hair and pull his mouth to her cunt, grinding against his tongue as he eagerly laps it against her.

 

He has taken to sitting at her feet, which she finds somewhat alarming, but not enough to protest. 

It is not quite _at_ her feet; he does not heel like a well-trained dog. Instead, he sits near her, leaning back against her chair or the wall beside it, close enough to touch but often doing whatever he pleases. She would be far too alarmed if he sat still doing nothing, waiting for instruction. 

The most alarming part of all of this is how easily the rest of the Citadel accepts this. 

The Vuvalini and the other Wives give her sly little knowing looks, but for the others? There seems to be nothing strange about the sight of Max lounging near her feet, most of them ignoring him completely and focusing all their attention on her. She does not know what to make of this and so she does nothing, which seems alright to everyone else involved. 

She grows used to the heat of his body at her side, to being able to reach out and feel him near without looking.

 

“Furiosa,” she hears, and she stops immediately, turning to find who it was that called her. She notes, dimly, that Max has stopped as well, standing nearby and waiting patiently for her to return to their conversation. 

A War Boy stands in front of her, one of the older, stronger ones. He glances quickly between her and Max, ducking his head a little and muttering something she thinks is Max's new title, but his attention turns back to her too quickly for her to take much time thinking about it. 

“We would like to request a Rig,” the Boy says, and she finds her eyebrows lifting high on her face. 

“Why?” she asks, resisting the urge to look back at Max to see what he thinks of this. 

The Boy looks a little surprised, like he had not expected her not to understand what the hell he'd want a Rig for. “...For raiding,” he explains, which is no explanation at all. What need have they to raid? They have everything they need here, in the Citadel. 

She stares at him silently, and he seems to be smart enough to realize she needs more information, because he hurries to explain himself. 

“For husbands,” he adds, which explains precisely _nothing_ , as far as she's concerned. 

This time, she _does_ turn to look at Max, and it annoys her to no end to see that he seems to accept this reasoning without needing any more clarification. He quirks his mouth at her, one shoulder dipping, amusement radiating off of him in waves. 

“For when I grow tired,” he says significantly, and it finally clicks. 

Furiosa feels her eyes widen sharply, and she turns to stare at the War Boy in horror. He doesn't seem to realize what she might find objectionable about this, and continues to look at her with hopeful expectation. 

“No!” she exclaims, her irritation growing when she sees the crestfallen look on the War Boy's face. 

“We thought...” he starts, trailing off when he sees the look on her face. Still, either he is incredibly brave, or incredibly _stupid_ , because he bolsters himself back up and tries again. “We ain't got much strong breeding stock,” he explains to her, his words all but falling over themselves in his hurry to get them out before he's punished. “Thought we'd get you some more husbands so that you can have more babies. More full-life babies.” 

Max hums lowly behind her, and when she turns to stare at him, he's actually looking _contemplative._

“...Unless you only want _his_ babies?” the War Boy offers, like maybe he's realized the reason for her consternation. 

“No!” she repeats, feeling very much like this situation has gotten well out of hand. 

Max rumbles behind her, something between a laugh and a protest, and she resists the urge to hit him in front of an audience, although she's sure this idiotic Boy wouldn't blink if she did. 

“We do not _steal_ people,” she says finally, scowling. She remembers being stolen. She will not inflict that on anyone else, strong breeding stock or not. “If... _husbands_ want to join our city, they can. But they will not be dragged here against their will, do you understand?” 

The Boy nods, but slowly, like he doesn't actually understand at all. 

Furiosa sighs. “No,” she says. “You may not have a Rig. There will be no raiding parties. Go back to your duties.” 

The Boy hastens to bow to her, which she finds distasteful, but he scuttles off before she can scold him again. 

Max is still looking amused when she turns around to look at him, and her scowl deepens. 

“Don't _you_ start,” she warns, giving in to the urge to hit him as she walks past, catching him in the arm with her metal hand, irritated and begrudgingly amused when he just laughs and takes the punch without complaining. 

“They're concerned for me,” he says, hot on her heels as they continue walking. “It's nice. Keeping up with all five of you, that'd wear out anyone. They just want to make sure you aren't riding me into the dirt.” 

She stops and stares at him, something horribly akin to guilt churning in her gut. Although she had known what the assumption was around the Citadel, that the Wives had basically taken Immortan Joe's place and were seeking to repopulate the city with Max's children — she can't even _begin_ to think about this, not really — she had not realized that he would also know about it. 

“Does it bother you?” she asks, her eyebrows drawing together. 

He shrugs, spreading his hands a little. “No,” he says eventually, and when she makes it clear she does not believe him, he shrugs again. “I don't mind.”

This is hardly enough explanation for her, and she says so. 

He sighs, leaning his shoulder against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “They assume you took me as Husband because you want to build a healthy population. If they think you're keeping me busy this way, they are less likely to offer up solutions of their own.” 

She snorts disbelievingly, and he gives her a wry look. 

“ _Less_ likely, I said.” 

She thinks about this for a moment, then frowns a little at him. “Do you want to?” 

No response from him, just his eyebrows lifted slightly. 

“Breed us,” she explains, fighting the urge to spit. It's become almost habit by this point, but those words hold different meaning now. 

“It doesn't matter what I want,” he says quietly, and Furiosa feels the sudden urge to shout at him for thinking this way, for falling into that trap, but he elaborates, and her ire recedes slightly. “What matters is what _you_ want, what the Wives want.” 

She thinks about this for a moment, thinks about the way Capable smiles at her when she sees Max sitting at her feet, thinks about the way Cheedo's eyes linger on his hands sometimes, thinks about how he is the only man Toast will speak to without her lip curling with disgust. Even The Dag has taken to him, allows him to help her in and out of chairs and the like now that her belly has swollen to such a size that is is cumbersome and gets in her way. 

“And if they want you to breed them?” she asks, feeling a little like she's floating far away from this conversation, like she's observing it from the outside. 

Max is silent, simply looking at her, and abruptly Furiosa realizes that this is _her_ decision. 

He is not just First Husband, he is _her_ First Husband, and he won't do anything until she tells him he can or he cannot. 

“I'll speak to them,” she says weakly, reeling a little. 

 

It is Cheedo who comes to him first. She smiles at him shyly, slides her little hand into his, and pulls him away from the wall towards where the Wives have pushed their beds together, a space where they like to curl up together and sleep in a pile like puppies. 

The Dag remains on the bed, curled on her side, a pillow beneath the bulk of her belly and between her knees, her head pillowed in Toast's lap. Capable isn't here, which Furiosa finds strange, but she can't find words at all at the moment, and so she does not ask where their lost Wife is. 

She's too busy watching the way Cheedo is undressing Max, the way he lets her touch him and doesn't reach for her in turn until she lifts his hands and places them on her body. 

She looks small and delicate beneath them, but not fragile, no. No longer is she Fragile. 

She looks _strong_ , pushing him to sit on the bed and climbing into his lap, her pale skin a strong contrast to his, her dark hair spilling down her spine when she lets her head fall back to give him space to kiss her skin. 

Furiosa still isn't sure about this, but it is the first time she has seen Cheedo reach for a man of her own volition, and so she remains silent, and watches instead the way Max holds her carefully in his large hands, the gentle way he touches her, the pleased hum he lets out when she gasps and moans and clutches him to her. 

They wind up spread out across the bed, Max lying on his back with Cheedo lowering herself onto his cock slowly and steadily, bracing herself on his good knee with one hand as the other slides up her body. The sounds she makes are wondering, breathy, and Furiosa reminds herself that this is probably the first time Cheedo has ever been in charge of her own sexuality, and despite the jealousy churning in her stomach, she can admit that she's glad this moment is happening. Reluctantly. 

It seems to last a long time, Cheedo rising and falling steadily above him, her hips rolling sharply enough to draw a low, rattling groan from deep inside his chest. 

Furiosa does not need to come any closer to see the way Toast has started to run her fingers through Max's hair, nor the way The Dag has shifted so that she can grip him by the chin and turn his head into a kiss. He comes like that, with The Dag biting at his lower lip, Cheedo's fingers digging into his chest, Toast twisting hers in his hair. 

It's clear they all expect that to be the end of it, but he settles one large hand on Cheedo's hip and holds her in place, moving without her permission for the first time as he slides the other hand between her legs, presumably rubbing at her clit. 

It doesn't take long for Cheedo to come as well, gasping and mewling in surprise, her whole body shaking hard enough that she collapses across his chest, trembling a little as The Dag strokes her back gently. They all make different variations on the same noise, something low and wondering, approval and surprise twisting around each other in the aftermath of something so unexpected. 

Max says nothing, catching his breath as best he can with Cheedo's weight still sprawled across his chest.

 

Toast takes him hard and fast, not interested in the slow touching he had used with Cheedo, with soft kisses and reassuring hums. She is straddling his lap in a chair, her knees tucked down near his hips, her hands braced on his shoulders as she bounces quickly above him. 

There is no kissing, no stroking. 

But still, his eyes remain trained on her face, and she lifts one hand to fist it in his hair the best she can, and when she comes, it is with bared teeth and held breath, silent and powerful. 

She doesn't linger in his lap when they are through, just slides away from him and gets dressed again, ignoring the mess between her thighs as she pulls on the trousers she has taken to wearing now that they are allowed proper clothing and not just the long strips of cloth they used to wrap themselves in. 

She murmurs something to him, something that makes him smile and nod at her, and Furiosa can see the sharp edge of Toast's answering smile before she turns around and goes back the way she came, not wanting to see anything more. 

 

She finds Capable in the infirmary, balanced on the edge of the counter, Max pressed between her legs, his trousers down around his knees as he rolls his hips against hers, the muscles of his ass flexing. 

Capable has her legs wrapped tightly around him, her arms wound around his neck, nails digging into his skin as she muffles her gasps into his shoulder. Her hair is sticking to her face, her cheeks are flushed a deep red, and her eyes, when she opens them, are dark with desire. 

She moans loudly when she sees Furiosa standing there, watching, and doesn't tear her eyes away when she comes with a long shudder. 

Furiosa slips away when she hears the stuttering breath that means Max is close as well, and is almost out of ear-shot when she hears his low groan. She tells herself she's pleased that they are learning how their bodies should feel, that she is not jealous, that she is not angry with him for doing what is asked of him. 

If she tells herself this enough, she will believe it. 

 

The Dag has no need of breeding, being so heavily, _obviously_ pregnant. Which is why Furiosa is surprised to hear her voice raised in a loud moan as she passes the room they have chosen for themselves. She sees, through the mostly-open door, The Dag kneeling on the edge of the bed, her head cradled against Capable's chest, Max standing naked behind her with his hands on her hips. It's clear she's far too round for almost any other position, which might perhaps be why Capable is involved today. 

Immortan Joe would fuck them on hands and knees too, although Furiosa never remembers wearing the expression that twists The Dag's face now. 

Furiosa turns on her heel and walks away before she sees the inevitable end to what's going on in there, knowing it will do nothing but make her angry for reasons she's avoiding looking at. 

 

Finally, days later, Furiosa admits to herself that she is jealous. 

Max slides into her bed with a low groan, his body creaking in ways she hasn't heard it do for quite some time, and collapses down behind her. He grunts a little, allowing his body weight to pull him closer to her, and tucks his face between her shoulder blades. 

She does not allow herself to wonder if he holds them after, if they curl up against him or let him curl up against _them._

“You must be exhausted,” she murmurs instead, managing to keep from sounding like she's blaming him. 

He groans again, his arm slowly sliding over her middle to curl around her. 

“Maybe we should think about finding more husbands after all,” she adds contemplatively, as if she is not wretchedly angry with the fact that she has to share him now. 

He hums and nods a little against her spine, his arm tightening around her waist. “Give me a break,” he agrees, his legs drawing up to tuck behind hers. 

Furiosa lets her hand settle over his and thinks fiercely to herself that the only time he'll get a break is when _she_ decides to give him one. “Yes,” is all she says, stroking her fingers over his knuckles. “Then you'd have to find _real_ work to do.” 

He laughs quietly, muffled by her shirt. “I think I'd survive.” 

“Doing real labor instead of just fucking them whenever they please?” 

He shifts behind her, something between a grunt and a groan caught in his throat. “'M too old for this, keeping up with all of you.” 

Furiosa knows this is not true, obviously. He's been managing to keep up with all of them just fine, and she doesn't bother pointing out that Joe was older than them both and still managed to keep his Wives' bellies full. Although, she doesn't remember him being quite as...insatiable as the Wives are turning out to be. Furiosa can admit to herself that she had not anticipated this when she had allowed them to take Max to bed. 

“What about just one of us?” she asks after a long silence, feeling stupid and guilty for being so jealous. 

Max doesn't call her out on it, although he must realize; instead he just presses a kiss to the center of her back, then wriggles a little higher up the bed so that his head is on the pillow as well and he can murmur into her ear. 

“I could take just one of you.” 

She snorts, tempted to remind him that _she_ won that first fight of theirs, but instead she just rolls over in the circle of his arms and lets him gather her up to his chest. 

“I suppose that would be alright, then.” she says, like she hasn't engineered this response, like it makes no difference to her. 

Max rumbles with his quiet laughter, his arm snug around her waist, their legs slowly tangling, and he presses his lips to hers, soft and lingering. 

“Alright.”


End file.
